


Family Business

by Ephermeralk



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, M/M, M/M Sex, alcohol use, bottom!Dean, brothers raised apart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-30
Updated: 2014-05-30
Packaged: 2018-01-27 15:11:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1715057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ephermeralk/pseuds/Ephermeralk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the FBI finds Sam Wesson and informs him that he’s in danger, he leaves immediately with an attractive agent named Dean Winchester. However, Sam begins to get suspicious when Dean starts exhibiting odd behavior—using large amounts of salt, writing sigils, and spouting off about demons. Sam tries to run, but there’s nowhere to go on the island he was brought to, and instead, Sam’s forced to confront his mixed feelings about the possibly psychotic Agent Winchester.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Family Business

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Written for [](http://spn-meanttobe.livejournal.com/profile)[**spn_meanttobe**](http://spn-meanttobe.livejournal.com/) Thanks to [](http://alexisjane.livejournal.com/profile)[**alexisjane**](http://alexisjane.livejournal.com/) for the look over, my lovely friend and beta [](http://sleepypercy.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://sleepypercy.livejournal.com/)**sleepypercy** , who has looked at so many thousands of words for me this year already, she deserves a medal. You are so, so wonderful. Also. Apologies for this neither being harlequin nor schmoopy.

“Samuel Wesson?” an unfamiliar voice asks from behind him as Sam throws his dirty scrubs into the machine.

“Uh-huh,” Sam affirms, only turning around when he’s got a fresh pair of sea-foam green cotton scrubs in his hands.

He almost groans when he realizes the man asking for him is sporting a suit. Talking with the hospital’s legal department is really not on the top of Sam’s list of things to do tonight.

“Hey, man. Look, I know you’re doing your job, but I’m off the clock. I’ve just finished a four day stretch, so is there any chance you could shoot me an e-mail instead? I promise I’ll get back to you over my break.” He smiles, pulling out what everyone has always called his ‘puppy-dog’ eyes. Now would be a great time for them to work.

“Sorry, Mr. Wesson, but I’m afraid this can’t wait. I’m Special Agent Dean Winchester with the Federal Bureau of Investigation.” A badge gets flashed in front of Sam’s face. It looks official enough, not that Sam could tell the difference between a real badge and a fake one anyways.

“Oh. Well, I’m on my way out…” Sam says. He’s unsure of what the FBI wants with him. Sam’s never killed anyone, laundered money, or sold drugs. There was that one out-of-state parking ticket he’d gotten a year or two ago while on vacation in Florida. To be honest, he can’t remember if he paid it or not. It does, however, seem like a waste of tax-payer money to track him down over such a small offense; no wonder the country’s going fucking bankrupt.

“Excellent. I need to talk to you in private, Mr. Wesson. Can we head back to your house?” the Agent asks him, giving him the slightest hint of a side smile. Its mere presence makes Sam’s will crumble into dust. The guy’s fucking hot and Sam hasn’t been laid in a while…but he does have the next few days off and maybe the agent could be convinced to spend the night. Or the week. Sam could use the stress relief, and Dean’s got quite the ass from the looks of it.

“I guess that’d be fine,” Sam says, walking down the corridor and into the elevator, making the agent keep up with his long strides. “And the name’s Sam. Mr. Wesson is my father,” he says reluctantly. He’d wanted a calm evening alone with some Chinese takeout and a basketball game—but one doesn’t simply tell the FBI _no_.

“Great. 191 Bundy Drive. Off Sunset Boulevard? That still the correct address?”

“Yeah.” _Fucking FBI_ , Sam thinks. Of course they know where he lives. And works. And probably eats as well. The elevator dings, and they step off into the garage where Sam’s car is parked.

“Great. Meet you there in 20. Unless you want to stop and pick up dinner first? I _love_ In-N-Out Burger. California’s best invention if you ask me.”

Sam sighs. The clock has almost reached 20:00, he’s starving, and it looks to be a long night, regardless. He concedes yet again. “Okay. But can you go, instead? I had children throwing up everywhere today and I’d like to shower first before I touch any food.”

Agent Winchester nods, taking a minute step back from him. The threat of germs always works in Sam’s favor.

“Did you park on this floor?” Sam asks, knowing that it’s reserved for hospital employees only.

“FBI, man. It’s got its perks.” Dean grins as Sam starts to glare. “Alright. Well, back to the food: I’m getting a double-bacon cheeseburger. You fine with that or you want something more doctor-y?”

Ignoring the dig, Sam politely says, “Protein-style, thanks.” He turned twenty nine recently and doesn’t need the carbs contained in the bun anymore. Lettuce wrapped meat works fine for keeping his waist narrow. He’s not quite as skinny as when he’d been a teenager, but Sam’s still slender. No reason to slip up on his diet simply because a hot guy is mocking him.

The agent grimaces a little, but turns around and gets into a shiny black muscle car which Sam is honestly surprised the FBI lets him drive. Maybe it got confiscated recently. That’s the most probable answer. Sam shrugs it off; he’s too tired to care. He opens the door to his Mustang and climbs inside, preparing for the hell that is Los Angeles traffic.

\--

“We think you’re in danger,” is the first thing that Winchester says when he sits down at Sam’s dining room table and bites into his hamburger.

“…and why would you think that? I’m boring. Adopted when I was seven months old. I lived most of my life in Montecito Heights before I went to undergrad at Stanford and then came back to L.A. for Med School. I spend most of my days at the hospital. But, of course, you know all of that.”

“I’d be a pretty shitty agent if I didn’t know your life history, not gonna lie. And I wish I could tell you who was behind this, but unfortunately, I’m not at liberty to say. All I’m allowed to mention is that we’ve intercepted multiple personal threats to you from high-profile suspects on our watch lists. We’re going to need you to vacate your house immediately. Tonight, actually. After we finish dinner.”

“Are you serious?” Sam asks. Because fuck. The FBI ousting him from his own house is goddamn ludicrous. He’s supposed to be off for the next nine days. He hadn’t even planned on leaving his house if at all possible. “Can’t you put me under surveillance, instead?”

There goes one question Sam thought he’d never ask.

“Nope. Your house might be bugged. Can’t chance it without ripping down your walls.”

“Yeah…let’s not do that.”

Sam spends the rest of the meal trying to process the fact that he’ll be leaving his house in under an hour. Hopefully he’ll still have a home whenever he returns. From the way this guy is talking, that doesn’t seem to be an assured outcome.

Once they’re both finished, Agent Winchester asks to see his bedroom.

“You know, I don’t usually let guys back here on the first date,” Sam says, trying to keep the tone light. Otherwise he might literally burst into tears. After 18 hours of being up, 12 of them working, it’s a fine line.

“Very funny, Sammy,” Winchester replies, unamused. “Now grab a duffle and get packing.”

“It’s S-A-M. And what exactly am I packing for?”

“I like Sammy. It fits you better. And if I were you, I’d think warm weather and extended vacation. Maybe a few good books. No electronics, though.”

“None?”

“Do I look like I’m joking?”

Sam doesn’t have a reply, and within ten minutes he finds himself with only a bag of clothes to his name, apparently headed for the airport.

“Where are we going?”

“I’m not at liberty to release that information.”

“I promise not to tell anyone.”

“Nope.”

“I’ve cooperated so far, haven’t I?”

“Mhm. But the less you know, the better. I’m trying to keep you safe. Remember that.”

“Safe from what?”

“Not now.”

“Promise to tell me later?”

“When the time’s right,” is all that Agent Winchester will say.

Sam’s pretty sure that clams open up easier than him.

\--

They get on a charter plane, although Sam guesses that they’re leaving the country when Dean hands him a fake passport. The name across the top, complete with his photo underneath says, “Padalecki, Jared.”

“What am I, Polish?” he gripes, while Dean shrugs.

“Random name generator,” he says. “Be glad it wasn’t something like ‘Willy’ or ‘Dick’.”

He’s more than a little surprised when Dean starts sweating when the engines turn on, creating a constant vibration throughout the plane.

“Agent Winchester, are you scared of flying?” Sam asks, half-mockingly, because the agent is carrying at least one gun and two blades. He also looks like he could take down a man about twice his size.

“Shuddup. And enough with the _Agent Winchester_ crap. Call me Dean.”

“Right. Well, Dean, you know that flying is statistically safer than driving, right?”

“Not helping.”

Sam reaches his hand over then and grabs onto Dean’s, rubbing over his thumb joint in steady, back and forth movements.

“How about this? This helping?”

Dean takes a few deep breaths and calms down. Relaxing into Sam’s larger grip.

“Anyone ever tell you that you have girl hands?” Sam asks jokingly.

A low growl emanates from the next to him and it makes Sam chuckle.

“Not all of us are lucky enough to share Sasquatch’s genetics.”

Now that they’re up in the air for an undetermined amount of time, Sam’s settled down. Started to get his bearings back for the first time in a few hours, and despite the fact that he’s exhausted, he is on an airplane with an incredibly hot FBI agent. Sam’s always had a thing for guys with green eyes and a nice smattering of freckles. “You’re a very nice height. I like it,” Sam says placatingly.

“Are you flirting with me?” Dean asks, another half-smile playing across his lips.

“Would it bother you if I was?”

“Nah. You’re a lot prettier than I expected. The picture I got of you was a bit fugly...”

Sam narrows his eyes.

“Yeah. Something resembling that look. Maybe if you turn down your mouth a little…”

“You don’t get to hold my hand if you’re going to be mean.”

“I’m sorry, Sammy. I apologize. You’re a very, _very_ pretty princess.”

“You’re a jerk,” Sam says, trying to pull his hand out of Dean’s, who as it turns out, won’t let him. He kind of likes it that Dean’s strong enough to keep his grip. Not many people can.

Sam could swear he hears Dean utter the word, _bitch_ underneath his breath, but opts to ignore the comment and close his eyes. Sleep comes easily.

\--

When Sam opens his eyes, albeit reluctantly because he’s still tired as hell, it’s bright outside. And green. Very green compared to Los Angeles. Also, Agent Winchester clearly changed clothes sometime during the flight. He’d ditched the suit for a pair of faded jeans and a grey tee-shirt with a green jacket covering his shoulders and arms. Sam wonders where he’s hidden all of his weapons. He looks to Dean, about to ask, when Dean reads the question off his face.

“We’re undercover now, smart stuff.”

“Right. Do I need a Hawaiian tee-shirt or something?”

“You’re fine,” Dean says as the plane lands on what Sam can clearly see is an almost too-short runaway on a small island. “Here we are: home sweet home. Only me and you and the ocean as far as we can see.”

“Why do we need undercover clothing then?”

“Dude. Stop spoiling my almost-vacation. It’s gorgeous out here, can’t you just relax?”

\--

Sam tries. He really does. But the panic sets in sometime after the plane refuels and takes off, leaving them alone on the island, and when Agent Winchester starts drawing various signs on the grey cement wall of what looks like an abandoned drug house.

“What are you doing with the salt?” he asks when Dean hauls out a 5lb bag, and starts to spread it in epic proportions, lining every window sill and doorway. “Does it keep the giant spiders out or something?”

“Or something.”

“Why are you drawing everywhere?”

“Warding sigils. Can’t you keep quiet for like ten minutes while I work here?”

“No. I want to know what you’re drawing warding sigils for. It doesn’t seem very FBI-like. Unless you’re Mulder. Oh my God, I totally got the one FBI agent who believes in abductions and unidentified flying objects, didn’t I?”

“Don’t be stupid, Sammy. Those don’t exist. But even if they did, that’d totally make you Scully. And no one likes a critic.”

“Are you even an FBI Agent?” he asks, because now that he thinks about it, aren’t they supposed to come in pairs? Or check in with their supervisor? He gets sidetracked for a moment by Dean bending down in front of him. Whoever he is, Dean’s got one of the best asses that Sam’s ever laid eyes on and given his profession, he’s seen more than his fair share.

When he blinks back residual tiredness and lust, Dean’s staring at him with an odd look in his eyes. He redirects Sam’s question. “Like what you see?”

It’s clichéd, sure, but that doesn’t mean Sam’s immune. Dean’s hot and Sam hasn’t gotten any in a long time. He’s stuck on an island with an obviously half-insane FBI Agent, who might have kidnapped him without arousing his suspicion. Having sex with him doesn’t seem that far-fetched at this point.

Still. Sam’s not easy, never has been, so he counters with, “Bet you’ve been using that line for your entire life, huh?”

Dean shrugs, carefully finishing his salt lines. The ones that apparently keep out _things_. “You know what they say… if it ain’t broken…”

“Well. You’re going to have to try harder than that if you want me to fuck you.”

“I think I’m cute.”

“Of course you do. Changing the subject, now that we’re here—and by here I mean the middle of nowhere—who’s after me, Mulder?”

“A demon.”

Sam almost chokes on his own spit. “A what?”

“A demon, Sam. Do I need to spell it for you?”

“You do know that those don’t exist, right? There’s this line between fantasy and reality. And demons: definitely on the not real side.”

“Actually. You’re the one who’s wrong. Your worst nightmares: all true. Vampires, werewolves, genies, tricksters, the whole lot of ‘em. And yeah. That includes demons, too.”

“You’re crazy. Like mental asylum crazy,” Sam says as he starts backing out of the house. It’s probably time to start thinking about building a raft from coconut trees.

“Aw. C’mon, Sammy. Don’t leave the crazy guy all alone.”

Sam runs. Of course, there’s nowhere to run to; the island is only about half a mile wide. He’s got no idea where the hell they are, besides somewhere in the tropics due to the heat and the sun’s position. He wanders around aimlessly, kicking the sand between his toes and wishing he had a bottle of rum to keep him occupied. Finally, with nothing to do, he sits down in on the beach and watches the waves lap against the white shoreline.

Dean finds him less than an hour later with his bare feet entrenched in sand. His shirt has blown open in the tropical breeze, exposing his tanned skin and abs, and Sam notices as Dean runs his tongue over his lips, taking all of him in with wide eyes.

“C’mon, gorgeous. Don’t want you to get a sunburn and be bitching all night. Also, I just finished unpacking all our food,” Dean says as he holds out a Snickers bar.

Sam reluctantly takes the chocolate and lets himself be led back to the dilapidated house with water and the promise of more food.

Dean had stocked up the pantry on gummy worms, granola and veggie chips. Sam’s favorite foods. Which is creepy. And kind of adorable in that stalker-y sort of way. Dean could have chosen to ignore all of his food preferences. That’s got to mean something, right?

\--

After Sam finishes eating, Dean hands over a bottle of what Sam can only assume by virtue of smell is cheap whiskey.

“To meeting you, Sammy. And to keeping you alive.”

Sam takes a drink because despite Dean’s obvious psychotic tendencies, it doesn’t seem like he wants to murder Sam in his sleep. And right now, Sam’s counting _all_ of his chickens.

“To being alive!” he says with as much gusto as he can muster, and downs the second shot alcohol.

Six shots later finds Dean sitting in Sam’s lap.

“You’ve got to take off your shirt now,” he says, toying with the hem of Sam’s button down.

“Oh yeah? And why’s that?” Sam flirts back, enjoying the light touches of Dean’s fingertips over his bare stomach. He’s even gladder he’s kept up with his morning sit-up routine now that he has a moment to spend with another human being who’s interested in him.

“Gotta get you marked. Like this.” Dean pulls off his own shirt to reveal a strange tattoo on his chest—it looks like some sort of star inside of a circle with flames coming out.

“Not that it’s not pretty,” Sam starts off with, “’cause that tattoo looks super-hot on you, but why do I need a matching one?”

“Keeps demons out,” Dean says nonchalantly. As if it’s the most normal reason in the world. “Don’t worry. I only got a marker here. We’ll get you properly inked once we’re back in the States.”

Sam obligingly strips, and Dean grabs a sharpie before returning to his position with both of his knees locking around Sam’s hips. There’s no surprise when Sam’s hips buck forward as if he could feel the pressure of Dean’s balls through his jeans.

“No moving, otherwise I’m going to have to do this again,” Dean says. Which, of course makes Sam immediately want to itch every part of his body. He manages to keep it together until Dean’s finished. And then he presses Dean’s slim hips against his own.

“You done teasing?” he asks, letting his hands roam the expanse of Dean’s pale torso. The alcohol’s gone to his brain, making him more relaxed, more _easy_ than he usually is, and for some reason, even though he’d normally be sending someone like Dean in for a psych eval, he can’t help but feel safe in Dean’s presence. There’s something about Dean that reassures him that whatever is going on between them, it might not end badly.

 _We’ve all got our demons_ , Sam thinks to himself. Even if Dean’s are little more real than most peoples’.

“What do you want?” Dean asks as he grinds his hips into Sam’s hard cock.

“What does the FBI have to offer?” he returns half-jokingly.

“Paid vacations, overtime, repossessed cars, and a 401k,” Dean says, even as he’s undoing the buttons on his jeans.

“True or False: are you an FBI Agent?”

“False. But I do hunt monsters. Keep people safe. You could say it’s the family business.”

“So you’ve got family then?” Sam asks as he runs his hands up the bumps of Dean’s ribcage.

Dean stops moving then, and stares at him, more intense than Sam’s seen before. “Yeah. A dad. And a brother once, too. Been looking for him almost my whole life.”

“I’m so sorry,” Sam says. “I can’t even imagine.”

“No,” Dean sighs, leaning in to press his lips against Sam’s own. “You really can’t.”

Dean breaks off the kiss, leaving Sam to protest until Dean starts licking around one of his nipples, teasing it until it stands out.

“You’re pretty sensitive there, huh? Just like me,” Dean says as he smiles.

Sam chuckles. “Oh, is that right?” he asks, and then picks Dean up, both hands on his ass, and deposits Dean on the couch. With Dean on his back, Sam’s free to suck bruises around Dean’s areolas while he squirms underneath Sam’s larger body. In this position it’s easy to slide their jeans and briefs off. Soon the only noise in the room is the wet slide of skin alternating with the harsh sound of breathing.

“Dean?” Sam asks into the non-FBI agent’s throat. “Can I…?”

He doesn’t finish the thought, but his message is clear by the way he’s angled his dick so that it nudges in between the round flesh of Dean’s ass.

“Yeah, Sammy. I actually prepped earlier while you were out…just in case…”

“Damn, that’s hot,” Sam mutters, not bothering the correct Dean about his name.

He pushes on Dean’s thighs then, effectively rolling him up and backwards, and Sam wishes there was a little more light, or he’d had a little less alcohol, so that he could thoroughly enjoy the shine of Dean’s lubed hole.

“You ready for me?” he asks.

“I’ve been waiting for you my whole life.”

Sam doesn’t take the time to think about Dean’s words. Instead, he lines his dick up, holding it steady until he’s pushed his way inside.

“Fuck, you feel good,” he says, right before he remembers that he’d forgotten to use a condom. He almost stops to ask Dean if he’s been tested recently, before he decides that it’s already too late. Hopefully he won’t get anything that a round of antibiotics can’t cure.

It’s been too long and Sam’s body refuses to let him go slow, though judging by the way Dean’s stripping his own cock, he doesn’t mind.

“God, Sam, you’re so big,” Dean huffs, giving off little grunts every time that Sam thrusts in until his balls press against Dean’s ass.

“Not too bad yourself,” Sam replies, noting how Dean’s cock is shaped more like his than any other dick he’s ever seen.

He thrusts in harder, faster, and all too soon it’s over. Once he’s finished, his dick still giving feeble twitches inside of Dean, he pulls out slowly and sits back on his heels.

Watching Dean’s dick slip in and out of his hand is entrancing, and if Sam were a little bit younger, he’d be half-way back to hard by now. When he reaches forward, he doesn’t touch Dean’s dick, but instead runs a finger back and forth up the seam of Dean’s balls. The feel of them separating slightly the harder he presses makes him grin, and Dean jacks himself faster in response. Sam leans down then, opening his mouth to take one of Dean’s heavy balls into his mouth and gives a light suck. It turns out to be enough to topple Dean over the edge, and Sam’s only regret is that he missed Dean making a mess of himself.

“Well. That was embarrassingly quick,” Sam laughs awkwardly.

“Eh. I’m sure I could be persuaded to go again later this afternoon.”

Sam lifts himself off the couch and finds a shirt to clean up with, throwing it over to Dean, who’s not only got come all over his stomach, but also leaking out of his ass and into the couch cushions.

“Thanks, man.”

Sam’s pulling his jeans back on when the sound of a phone ringing breaks the soft scratching of cotton against Dean’s skin.

“I thought you said no electronics. And you brought a fucking phone?” Sam snarls. It’s not like he would have used it anyways, but it’s the principle of the matter here.

Dean shrugs. “Yours? No way in hell. This one’s a burner cell.”

He answers it immediately. “Sir?”

Sam waits, looming over where Dean’s still naked on the couch, shirt all but forgotten; his whole attention is focused on the phone.

“Excellent. Yes, there’s been quite a few similarities, but it’s always good to have the DNA evidence.”

Sam tries to poke Dean, who holds up a finger, indicating that he should wait. Feeling grumpy and unsympathetic Sam tries to get Dean’s attention by running his hand over Dean’s cock, enjoying the feeling of the soft flesh trying to harden under his touch.

 _Dude,_ Dean mouths to him, scowling. Sam continues touching him until Dean’s completely hard, thrusting up into his palm, still listening intently over the phone.

“Great. We’ll see you soon then. Yes, sir. We’ll be ready to go.”

“What was that about?” Sam asks, the minute that Dean hangs up the phone.

“We gotta get ready to go, Sammy. Moving you to a new safe house.”

“Oh yeah? And why’s that?”

“You’re…special. In fact, we just got the DNA results back, which confirmed what we’ve suspected for some time now.”

“…meaning?” Sam presses his finger into Dean’s slit, and uses his other hand to cup Dean’s ball close to his cock. This time, he gets to watch Dean’s cock shoot out a few meager strands of semen. Sam forgives him for the poor display considering he had come less than ten minutes earlier.

Dean pulls him down, until Sam’s lying on top of his body, and licks over the rough edges of Sam’s lips and into his mouth.

When Sam stops for a moment to catch his breath, Dean finally answers his question.

“It means that you’re who I’ve been searching for my whole life. Sammy—you’re my brother.”

Dean smiles, and despite the fact that Dean’s dumped a life-time worth of information on him—including the fact that _he knew_ Sam was his brother, yet still encouraged Sam to fuck him anyways—Sam can’t help but smile back. Sam’s dick hardens slightly in his pants at the thought of _he’s my brother._ He never knew he was this screwed up in the head until now. But Dean’s still hot, and Sam wouldn’t turn down fucking him again. Apparently it runs in the family.

Dean slaps his face lightly when he doesn’t make any signs of moving from the couch.

“C’mon, little brother. Up and at ‘em. Dad’ll be here in an hour or so. It’s gonna be a great day.”

Sam gives him a weak smile from his still couch lying position. Family. Dad. Oh God. Sam’s going to meet his real father, whose other son he just fucked. Even with those thoughts running through his head, he takes Dean’s hand when it’s offered. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to say no to Dean. _His brother._ The one who may turn out to be schizophrenic with religious delusions. Sam has this feeling in his gut though, something that tells him he needs to trust Dean. To give him a chance before calling the real FBI.

“Okay, Dean,” he says softly. “Let’s go meet Dad.”

\--END--


End file.
